Ace of Spades
by TheRumRunner
Summary: This is a short post- TDK story. It can be read stand alone or with my other piece--'Everything Burns'. This explores the origin of the Joker, moving back and forth through time and events in his life. It's rated T for violence and some language. Enjoy!


**A/N**: This little one shot is actually a nice companion piece to my Everything Burns story listed under the Batman section. It is a TDK story, but for some reason I posted it over there. Therefore, this new bit about the Joker's origin is under the Batman Begins section. (Where the first story should have been uploaded.) If you enjoy my writing, please feel free to click on my name to read the larger piece. It is funny how a few writers, myself included, have chosen Jack as the Joker's true name. Weeks later I am still haunted and inspired by TDK and the most true to character Joker performance ever. I do not own these fantastic characters from DC or intend to make a profit from this story. 'I am the Walrus' is written by The Beatles.

Scribbled in an almost illegible hand on a wall inside an empty Arkham Asylum cell are the lyrics to a song.

_I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.  
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly.  
I'm crying._

_Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.  
Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday.  
Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.  
I am the eggman (woo), they are the eggmen (woo), I am the walrus,  
Coo coo, kachoo._

_Mister City P'liceman sitting  
Pretty little policemen in a row.  
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.  
I'm crying.  
I'm cry, I'm crying, I'm cry, I'm crying._

_Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye.  
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,  
Boy, you been a naughty girl and you let your knickers down.  
I am the eggman (woo), they are the eggmen (woo), I am the walrus,  
Coo coo, kachoo._

_Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun.  
If the sun don't come, you get a tan from  
Standing in the English rain.  
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen, I am the walrus,  
Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo._

_Expert texpert choking smokers,  
Don't you think the joker laughs at you? (ho ho ho, he he he, ha ha ha)  
See how they smile like pigs in a sty, see how they snide.  
I'm crying._

_Semolina Pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower.  
Elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna.  
Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.  
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen, I am the walrus,  
Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo  
Juba juba juba, juba, juba, juba, juba, juba, juba juba. Juba juba..._

A small cardboard box resides in locker #4517 at Gotham's central bus station. The contents inside have not been touched in almost ten years. The precious mementos meant something to someone long gone. There the box would most likely stay unopened for another ten, twenty or perhaps until the place itself was leveled to dust. No one was coming back to lay claim to its contents.

**Ten Years Ago: Somewhere in Iraq**

The ground shook as the city of Tikrit took heavy shelling from B-2 bombers and Apache gun ships. Through the thick smoke, a small squad found safety behind the remnants of a school from the sniper fire raining down upon them.

"Can we make it?" A voice called out, struggling over the booming artillery.

About fifty yards away a Humvee stood parked next to a burned out grocery store. The squad leader eyed it weighing the risk of venturing out and then looked over to his men crouched in a ready position.

Camp Lejeune a month earlier

Under the cover of darkness, a C- 17 cargo plane was in the process of being loaded and a small squad of men was checking their gear before walking on board the craft. Eight men total comprised the team for the secret mission. These Marines, handpicked for their proficiency with weapons, hand-to-hand combat, and intelligence, were the best the Corp had to offer. Over the past year, their training was rigorous and the mission planning well thought and rehearsed down to the last detail.

Plans always look better on paper and orchestrated under assumed conditions. Nothing prepares you for the real thing and unforeseen situations.

**The Present: Gotham City Subway Platform 12**

The F train, filled with morning commuters, shut its doors and began to pick up speed. The lights from the tunnel blurred by the windows and reflected on the glasses of a very calm Abdul Ahmed.

It was time for his deliverance and martyrdom. He prayed to his God and pushed a button on the incendiary device concealed under his dress shirt. His action gave way to an explosion that rocked through the subway, blowing flames up the stairways to street level. Everything and everyone down below turned to ash.

The Joker perched on a building top across Gotham received word that all had gone according to plan. His mouth skewered itself into a twisted smile upon hearing the news. Teaming up with the Arab had its advantages. One less religious zealot is walking around and the logistical nightmare of using gasoline adverted, he thought.

The costumed criminal dialed GCN news from a stolen cell phone.

"I just wanted to call in and say a few of Gotham's citizens are going to be late for work today. Late citizens being the key words."

**Tikrit: Iraq**

A voice crackled from the earpiece in the squad leader's ear.

"Abort! Abort!"

Another shell dropped. This time it was closer. They huddled together, waiting for their orders.

"Jack," one of the Marines said, giving the squad leader a tap from his rifle butt. "Jack, what are they saying?"

"They want us to abort, but I'm telling him that we're under heavy fire. Not just from insurgents, but our own."

Another squad member leaned in close. "So… we're going right. They're sending someone in."

Jack finished his conversation with headquarters and double-checked his rifle in grave silence.

"Oh, you're shitting me…" said a Marine, reading into Jack's demeanor.

"No… I'm not," Jack answered. "You knew that coming into this. We made a choice. If things don't go according to plan, we're on our own."

"Let's do this," said the soldier toward the back of the group.

Jack agreed. Before the rush to the Humvee, he took the ace of spades card from the left top pocket of his ammo vest and inserted it under the band on his helmet.

In the next moment, the Marines ran toward the destroyed grocery where the vehicle was waiting. They each took turns covering one another by trading fire with the insurgents. Bullets whizzing through the air either hit their target or buried themselves in nearby walls.

Halfway across the fifty yards to safety, three of the eight men fell dead. The remaining continued to return fire while trying to drag the lifeless bodies of their squad members with them. No mater how bad things became you never left a man behind on the field.

It was a loosing effort. The enemy surrounded them and closed in.

**Eleven Years Earlier**

The son glared at his father through the tears burning in his eyes as he dropped to his knees in shock. The body of his mother, curled in a fetal position, lay motionless. The simple white nightgown she wore quickly became a deep scarlet red from blood.

His father showed no emotion as he placed a gun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger. With a thud, his body hit the floor as streams of blood trickled out the corners of his mouth giving the appearance of a crooked smile.

Fifteen minutes ago, Jack was playing his favorite card game, Crazy Eights, with his mother. He was dressed in a purple and green suit she had handmade for him to wear in the school play.

Now he sat all alone.

Somewhere across town, a similar scene was playing out. Another son sat next to the bodies of his murdered parents.

As time passed, both boys would come to understand that money had taken their parents away from them.

**Present Gotham: The Arab's Hideout**

A few years back the Government thought it would be a fun idea to put terrorist pictures on playing cards. In his hand, the Joker shuffled a set of these very same propaganda cards. The Arab sat across from him at a table reading a copy of the Gotham news, contemplating their next target.

"Let's play," the Joker announced, dealing each of them a poker hand.

"Please, I do not have time to this," the Arab snapped.

The Joker yanked the newspaper from his hands and tossed it to the side. The individual sections of the paper came loose and drifted apart in the air.

"Don't hurt my feelings," whined the Joker.

Outraged the Arab stood up. "You're insane!"

The Joker leaned back in his chair and looked him straight in the eye. "Well if you don't want to play, we can tell jokes. Hey—did you hear the one where a camel, Jesus and Muhammad walk to an oasis and …"

"Fine, we'll play your stupid game." The Arab cut him off.

"You first."

The Arab drew a card and discarded one. The two went on a few more times until the Joker laid his hand of cards on the table. The Arab then laid his holdings.

"Hmm," the Joker mused.

"What?"

The Joker erupted in laughter. "Oh look it's your picture on the ace of clubs!"

"Yes, so what."

The room fell quiet and the Joker leaned in over the table towards him. "You're part of a Dead Man's Hand."

**Back to the Past**

In the military, training involves methods to mentally withstand torture and interrogation. When you are part of a special taskforce, this training is of utmost importance. Even if the government leaves you to die in the middle of a desert at the hands of ruthless terrorists that enjoy seeing you and your buddies electrocuted, the rule is to not spill the beans.

Twenty- eight hours ago, Jack and his squad ceased to exist. Their government considered them casualties and that is the story any loved ones back home would receive to tie up everything nice a neat.

Through two blacked eyes, Jack strained to see into an adjoining room. He could not tell which one of his men was there, but the screaming told him everything he wanted to know. This was it. The end was near. Every one of the soldiers in the squad would defend their country until death.

Hour by hour another life was lost. Only Jack remained out of the eight. He was strapped tightly with nylon rope to a rusty metal chair. So far, he had endured beating, electrocution and water torture. As soon as he would pass out from exhaustion, they woke him up and played loud music. It was always the same song repeatedly.

The voice of John Lennon buzzed like a saw in his brain. The lyrics spread raw chaos in his thoughts. The verses were playing round and round and falling out of order.

_I am the walrus!!_

Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo

_I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together._

_Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo_

_Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo_

_Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo_

_Don't you think the joker laughs at you? (ho ho ho, he he he, ha ha ha)_

_Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo_

_Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo_

_Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo_

_Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo!!_

The captors suddenly turned off the music and all the lights, except for one tall light. It was similar to one found in an operating room. It was round and positional. A burly man wearing a black ski mask rolled a tray displaying various knives and sharp stainless steel surgical instruments into the room.

Jack was numb and at this point unable to put up much of a fight. His last threads of sanity were snapping one by one. What more could they possibly do to him? He prayed that whatever was planned would be quick.

He spat out bubbles of saliva and blood, trying to verbalize a protest. He produced nothing more than a wheeze and a gurgle. From behind the masked man in a darkened corner of the room, Jack heard them laugh and say something inaudible in their language.

The masked man wrapped his hand firmly around a tool that's blade was similar to a sickle and approached Jack.

Jack thought of death and the possibility of an afterlife. He wanted to know if he would see his mother again. Deep inside his heart, there was a sort of happiness and peace in these great expectations.

Outside the shelling began again. The terrorists scattered to pack up their camp, leaving him alone with the masked man.

"Why so serious," the man asked Jack.

"Get it over with," he ordered in a weak mumble.

"Let's put a smile on your face," the man said in a deep growl.

**Death Dealer**

A fire raced through the Arab's warehouse engulfing all three floors. Inside the inferno, stashes of explosives detonated. Pieces of the building and its contents flew high in the sky. Off in the distance the Joker spied the Gotham police racing towards the scene. Even with the police approaching, it was a shame to waste such a beautiful scene by having to make for an escape. The Joker stopped and turned back to admire his handiwork. He placed his bloody switchblade in the side pocket of his purple coat. After a moment, he rummaged around and pulled out a locker key on a chain. He eyed it strangely, moving it around with mild curiousity in his gloved hand. It was probably nothing and replaced it back inside his coat with the knife and lint.

The sirens were getting louder and there was no point in sticking around. There was still much of Gotham that was badly in need of a little anarchy. As he left the scene he mused to himself.

"Music is like laughter. It is universal in any language. Coo coo kachoo ka coo coo kachoo. Ho ho ho, he he he, ha ha ha."

Perhaps Jack's memories remained inside the Joker even as the sickness of his mind warped the truth.

Thanks for reading. I will continue my other story 'Everything Burns' soon. It will interweave parts of this story as well as expand on the inner workings of the Joker.


End file.
